


This is Porthos

by theladybeatrice



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Porthos Week, spoilers for Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:45:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2447468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladybeatrice/pseuds/theladybeatrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos means so much to everyone he encounters.</p><p>Porthos fell into the habit of kissing Flea goodnight, usually a soft kiss against her hair or forehead.  He often did the same if he left the apartment alone during the day.  At first, it was a reassurance, that he was there, that he was steady, that she was safe.  Then, one night, she turned to meet his kiss, and felt her heart tumble into a new place where it would always be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Porthos

**Author's Note:**

> I thought Aramis was the talkative one, but Flea had more to say.

d’Artagnan was always surprised by how Aramis could scare him when he suddenly turned lethal. To be fair, he wasn’t often on the receiving end of that glare. But right now, Aramis was staring at d’Artagnan as if he had a target between his eyes. d’Artagnan had instinctively tried to flinch away but the cart at his back and Aramis’ hands gripped tightly on his front weren’t him letting go anywhere. 

In his mind, d’Artagnan quickly spiraled through his recent words. He had said he was sure it was an accident, but what if Porthos had really killed that man. He meant no disrespect for Porthos. There had to be dozens of reasons why it had happened, but the end result was the same; a man was dead. He had merely voiced aloud what they all must have thought at least once, but Aramis was giving no ground. 

“This is Porthos.” Aramis’ tone was as deadly as his steel. 

“You understand?” d’Artagnan nodded shakily, feeling his hair lightly bob against his forehead. He watched nervously as Aramis took in a deep breath, gave a subtle nod, and patted his chest before releasing him. d’Artagnan sighed out the breath he had been holding, relieved that he hadn’t been punched, or worse. 

He was sorry to have pained Aramis. He really should have known better, and had let his mouth run ahead of his sense, again. 

Porthos didn’t deserve his doubt. Porthos had never been anything but generous with him. If he were really honest, d’Artagnan had to admit that Porthos would have had every right to kill him in that first duel, when he had tried taking on all three of them. Instead, Porthos had merely subdued him, not even touching him with the point of his sword. In the months that followed, he had become friend and brother. 

Porthos was the one who guided him through the vagaries of Paris after dark, particularly when Athos was in the drink and Aramis sought his pleasure in someone’s arms. Porthos taught him to play cards, or at least how to avoid being cheated. He never seemed annoyed to have d’Artagnan tag along, even seemed to enjoy imparting his knowledge of the streets. d’Artagnan recognized that he was still far from an expert, but without the aid of Porthos, he would have been cheated out of every sou to his name by now. 

Porthos’ easy grin had made d’Artagnan laugh more than anything else had these last months. When he grew morose about losing his father or being homesick or not performing his best at any given task, it was Porthos who could bring him cheer. Porthos was the one who made him see light in the darkest moments. He didn’t deserve d’Artagnan’s darkness now. 

 

*******

As soon as the words began leaving the lad’s mouth, Athos was instantly on alert. He knew there would be a reckoning for them, however much d’Artagnan may have been honest. Athos watched with an outward calm he didn’t feel as Aramis leapt to grab d’Artagnan by the doublet. He fervently hoped that he wouldn’t have to pry Aramis’ hands off the Gascon. The moment stretched out as Aramis’ fury recoiled back inside, and he let go, expending his energy by stalking away from them. 

Athos had been trying to keep close watch on Aramis, expecting this was bound to come out eventually. His friend never took it well when any of them were in danger, but usually that happened on the battlefield, where Aramis had some kind of control. He was skilled enough with any weapon to bring about a swift end to an opponent. Athos also believed that the medical skills Aramis had cultivated were really another effort at control. He wouldn’t lose his loved ones if there were something he could do to prevent it. Unfortunately, this seemed to be a situation where there was little Aramis or he could control. Porthos was at the mercy of an unfeeling court system, and now was ensconced far beyond their reach in the Court of Miracles. Now, it seemed, Aramis’ control on his own emotion was starting to slip.

“Go to the Wren. See what you can find out,” Athos ordered. He knew Aramis needed something to do, some action to take. He hoped that by sending the two of them together, they would quickly repair the crack in their friendship. In the absence of Porthos, Aramis needed his loved ones, and d’Artagnan would have to serve now. A quick glance to the lad seemed to convey the message. They started off, Aramis leading purposely and d’Artagnan somewhat nervously behind. 

Athos himself headed back to the garrison, intending to leave his uniform behind and find something suitable to disguise himself in the Court. He could think of nothing in his own quarters that would work, but remembered a non-descript shirt with a hood belonging to Porthos himself. Though it was undoubtedly too large for him, the added size of the hood would help to hide his face. 

Someone had to go after Porthos, and it had to be him. The three of them together, in uniform, had not been able to penetrate very far into the Court of Miracles. Even Aramis had been able to see that. They would not be of any use to Porthos captured and injured, so a tactical retreat had been necessary. d’Artagnan was still a bit a naïve when it came to the rougher parts of Paris, and it had been obvious he was far too innocent of the Court’s wonders. Aramis’ slick smile and easy charm would likely make him a target in the Court as much as his uniform would. Athos knew he was best suited to slip quietly through the rough streets without notice, at least for while. 

In the garrison, he was able to find the shirt easily in Porthos’ trunk. There weren’t really all that many clothes in the trunk at all, since most days simply required a change of shirt under the uniform. This was something Porthos kept for cold off days without a uniform, and there weren’t that many of those. Athos gathered a dark, unmarked cloak about him as well, and checked his reflection in a mirror hanging on Porthos’ wall. Under the dark blue cloth, his pale face glowed out of the hood. He would have to do something about that.

Under the staircase in the garrison courtyard, Athos grabbed up two handfuls of soil. He hoped that this particular spot was relatively free of horse debris. First, he rubbed his hands together, letting the bigger chunks of soil fall back to the ground. Then, he smeared what was left across his cheeks and forehead, not relishing the feel of the grime, but needs must. 

The earthy smell of the soil was not enough to erase the scent on his clothes. “This is Porthos,” he thought and Athos tried to focus on the comfort it gave him. He could imagine Porthos was there, wrapping him in his strength. Porthos’ hugs were given often and freely, and Athos, who had been touched so rarely with affection in his whole life, reveled in them. He thought, a bit guiltily, that Porthos probably knew how much a hug could soothe him, though he never did it where it might be misinterpreted as inappropriate. Instead, Porthos would place a hand on the back of his neck, or shoulder, or even just pat his arm, knowing instinctively that Athos would be better for it. Porthos just did what made people better, without thought for himself or the effort required. 

On the edge of the Court, Athos pulled the hood farther over his face, smiled at the scent of Porthos, and headed in to find his brother.

*******

Flea did not remember a time when she hadn’t known Porthos. He was there in her earliest childhood memories, a dark shadow behind her in all her adventures in the Court. She did remember clearly though, being just five years old, so her mother told her, when Porthos came to live with them. His own mother gone, he was abandoned to the mercies and miseries of the Court. When he followed Flea home one day, her mother never remembered to send him on his way. Now, Flea knew her mother’s supposed inattention had been deliberate, but then, it had seemed like a wondrous secret that neither she nor Porthos were going to reveal. 

That night, her mother had gathered up a collection of soft animal skins, the top layer being furred, and placed them in the only open space in the one room apartment, right in front of the door. She told Porthos, in a serious tone, that he was to sleep there to prevent anyone from opening the door in the night. It was his responsibility to protect them. Now, Flea knew it was simply her mother’s way of insuring the boy stayed put, and likely safe under their roof, rather than expecting a five year old to stand guard. But Porthos had listened solemnly and maintained his sentinel position for years to come, eventually adding a straw pallet to the pile of skins. Flea was never able to see him sleep, tucked as she was between her mother and the wall in their own bed, but she could always hear his soft steady breathing, a lower tone than her mother’s, and she always felt safe. 

When the apartment became Flea’s, she was only eighteen. Her mother died in the winter, helped along by extreme cold and lack of nutrition. She had developed a habit of making sure Flea and even Porthos had more than enough to eat, and when disease came for her, was too weak to fight it off. The first nights, alone in the bed, Flea did nothing but shiver and tremble. The bed shook with it. Porthos tried to give her privacy, and had briefly considered what some of the neighbors had told him, that it wasn’t right for him to live here with a young girl, unchaperoned. But this was Flea, his family. He was grieving himself, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her alone to grieve either. On the third night, he left his station at the door, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached a hand out to pet her hair and she gradually stilled, looking up at him with wide eyes. Unsteadily, she took his hand and pulled him down to lie beside her. Porthos stretched out along the length of the bed, trying to bring Flea as much warmth as he could. She stayed still, and at last, found safety and rest. 

Porthos never returned to his position on the floor. Without discussion, Flea and Porthos agreed his place was in the bed. Though Flea knew some neighbors were scandalized, and that was a difficult thing to accomplish in the Court, she also knew that without Porthos in the apartment, she would have lost it entirely. Some unscrupulous person would have forced his way in, kicked her out, or done even worse. Porthos’ presence was enough to prevent attack, and he endured the whispers and insults of those so scandalized in order to protect her. 

It was in those early days after her mother’s death that they acquired Charon into their little family as well. He had become their partner in crime already, and frequently accompanied them throughout the day. It wasn’t long before he had stayed late into the night, celebrating a particularly delicious con they had pulled, that Flea allowed him to stay rather than finding a warm spot to sleep on the street. Porthos offered him the pile of skins on the floor, and Charon took up Porthos’ former spot in front of the door. 

Charon was grateful, but not nearly so loyal as Porthos. Some nights he stayed, some he slept in a tavern, some in the street, and some in the arms of a woman more affectionate. As a year turned into two, Charon spent less and less time in front of their door, and Flea and Porthos began to feel more like adults than the children they had been. 

Porthos fell into the habit of kissing Flea goodnight, usually a soft kiss against her hair or forehead. He often did the same if he left the apartment alone during the day. At first, it was a reassurance, that he was there, that he was steady, that she was safe. Then, one night, she turned to meet his kiss, and felt her heart tumble into a new place where it would always be. 

After the incident with Treville, Porthos changed. Flea hadn’t seen it coming. She prided herself on being able to size up a mark, to know what a person was thinking before he even knew it himself. But then, Porthos wasn’t ever a mark. Maybe that was why she felt so blindsided when he announced that he wanted to leave. 

“I can’t stay in the Court. I just don’t fit here.” He wanted to leave the Court, their home. “Come with me, Flea. Let’s see what’s out there. S’gotta be something better for us!” He wanted to leave the Court, not her. But she fit here; this was home. Why wasn’t that enough for him? 

“Ya didn’t see it, Flea. When that Musketeer needed help, his friends were there. Instantly, without question. I don’t think they even knew what happened, they just defended him. He belonged to them.” Porthos looked at her with almost guilt. “I want that. I want to belong.” 

“You belong with me!” Flea argued. “And Charon. We have a life here.” She knew desperation was seeping into her words. 

“But there’s a better life, somewhere, there ‘as to be.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Come with me!” he begged again. 

Flea only shook her head. She couldn’t leave the Court. She knew the Court, its ways, its people. She did not have the strength to learn a new world, nor the desire. She could also see instantly that Porthos would go. All those years by her side, and now he would go. She had the strength to stay, and it gave Porthos permission to go. 

As he leaned over to her to kiss her, she felt his tears drop on her face. This was not easy for him, but it was necessary. One kiss said the goodbye that words couldn’t bear to speak. He tore away from her and left. Once the door clicked closed, she crumpled into a heap on the floor, and remained there until Charon found her, hours later. 

Charon put her back together. It took months, but she came to respect him, honor him, and even feel affection for him. Eventually, she made her life with him. As Charon rose to be the King of the Court, she enjoyed the unofficial status offered to her as well. But although she tried, she was never quite able to retrieve her heart from that place where Porthos had left it. 

She had heard of his commission into the Musketeers, and of a few of his exploits. Although Porthos had felt isolated in the Court, there were still people there who remembered him and wished him well. When news of Porthos circulated in the Court, it would eventually make its way to her. She had glimpsed him once or twice in the streets of Paris, but hadn’t approached him. He had been in the company of other Musketeers, and his wide grin and easy smile told her he was happy enough. She didn’t wish to impose his former life upon him. 

Nevertheless, she somehow wasn’t surprised when Charon brought him back into the Court. Charon kidnapped him really, but it was for Porthos’ own good. His time in the Court would now protect him, and she was so glad for that. 

Of course, though, Porthos ended up protecting them, once again. First, pushing Charon out of the way of an assassin and then remarkably, by removing the assassin’s ball. After Charon passed out from the pain, Flea fled the room only to be followed by Porthos. She knew the shifty feeling in her core was not from watching Porthos cut into Charon’s flesh, but from the mere presence of the man himself. When she flung herself into his arms, she felt him relax instantly. The feel and the taste were so intimately familiar after all this time. “This is Porthos,” she thought. 

Later, in her room, with Porthos’ strength wrapped around her, she just wanted to enjoy. She caressed her hand against his palm, memorizing the feel of it. She had dragged her lips across the scars on his chest and stroked the ones on his back. So many scars gave testament to the rough life he had endured even outside the Court. “Enjoy what you have while you have it,” she told herself. But really, nothing had changed. The fundamental problem remained. He did not belong here, would be leaving in the morning. Once again, like all those years ago, he asked her to come with him, his voice low like sweet molasses. Once again, she knew she could not. She also knew her heart would forever remain in that place where only Porthos could reach for it. 

*******

At last, Porthos was coming home, leaving the Court, and coming to them, to him. Aramis sat tensely upon his horse, not yet ready to relax until they had Porthos all the way back to the safety of the garrison. Trying to calm his nerves, he scratched his thumbnail against the opposite cheek. He watched with fascination as Porthos kissed Flea. She really was lovely, and he had heard tales of her mixed into Porthos’ childhood stories, but he hadn’t realized just what she had meant to Porthos. He probably didn’t want to realize, he admitted to himself. There was something intimate, something powerful in the air around them that made him feel absurdly jealous. When Porthos waited to watch her walk away, Aramis heard a childish voice in his head trying to call Porthos’ attention over to him. He tried telling himself to stop being ridiculous, but it was no use. 

They had not had time to bring a horse for Porthos. Now, he was forced to walk beside them as they left the Court. Athos set the pace slowly to allow him to keep up. When they were a few blocks away, out of the sight of the Court, Aramis stopped and simply held his arm down to Porthos. Without a word, he took it and swung himself up to ride behind Aramis. For a moment, Aramis felt Porthos slump against his back while his forehead dropped to rest on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis patted the arm slung about his waist and whispered “almost home.” He heard a satisfied grunt as Porthos straightened up. 

“Nah, I am home,” Porthos returned with confidence, as he gently tightened his grip on Aramis. The voice in Aramis’ head sighed with delight to say “this is Porthos.”


End file.
